


She's Just Killing Me—A Sharp-Dressed Man/Legs Sequel

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Camo-Verse [4]
Category: Castle
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holidays, Humor, Sex, Sexual Humor, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The jig is up now, though. His ears go red, and he can't shut up to save his life. Not that saving his life is an option at this point. It's too late for that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set around Christmas 2013. Third story in the Camo-verse, following "Sharp-Dressed Man" and "Legs."

  


* * *

I think I see her  
I know I love her  
Yes, I might love her  
She's just killing me

\--- Z. Z. Top "She's Just Killing Me." 

* * *

 

It's a shame, really. It's a nice party. There's eggnog and mulled wine and good, solid food. The music is low key, and the present exchange is just the right combination of complicated and ridiculous enough to be fun. And eggnog. There's kind of a lot of that.

He did this. For her. _I get to have you for Christmas_ , he says simply when she asks.

But she knows it's more. It's for her, but not just for her. It's for the twelfth. Their family here. For the ones who'll keep watch this year. Because she has a family. They're a family, and he's grateful for it. He wanted to do something, so he did.

And it's _nice._ The party. He gave it a lot of thought, but kept it casual. And she knows him. She knows that he must have reined himself in on some of the over-the-top things he'd have loved to do.

It's nice. But she still has to kill him.

He knows it, too. There's a picture coming together.

He showed up late. Called the party strictly a cop thing and said he was just keeping out of the way _._ He kissed her once under the mistletoe with his scarf still on, then hustled off to mingle.

But he hasn't been mingling. He's been _hiding_. That'sall over now. All over.

A slightly tipsy Gates has him cornered. She's asking about it. The sweater. She's nodding seriously. Tipping her head to the side and moving him into better light to really get a look at it. Everyone's really getting a look at it. People are noticing. People are talking. About the Case That Shall Not Be Named.

He's babbling. Gesturing and turning away. Trying to pull his jacket closed over it like _everyone_ hasn't already seen. Like _she_ hasn't already seen. He's trying to hide _now, now, now,_ like he's just realized. But he hasn't just realized anything. He knew full well. He's been hiding this whole time. The jig is up now, though. His ears go red, and he can't shut up to save his life. Not that saving his life is an option at this point. It's too late for that.

Their eyes meet across the room. His widen. Hers narrow. He knows.

They both know she has to kill him. It's kind of a shame.

* * *

She's going to kill him. She'll be sorry about it. He thinks she will be. Kind of sorry. He flatters himself that there are one or two things she'll miss. And she'll apologize for ruining the party with a murder right in the middle of it. But she's still going to kill him the absolute first chance she gets.

The Captain is defending him. Defending . . . _it._ The sweater. Somehow that's the worst thing of all. The worst thing ever.

The Captain is apparently a knitter. That little tidbit of information slots into his brain right next to her disturbing obsession with those creepy dolls. She won't keep her hands off him. She won't stop pulling open his jacket. She makes him take it off. She _orders_ him to take it off and it's definitely not a joke.

She's going on about _detail_ and _color work_ and how neatly the piece lays flat. That's a big deal, apparently, with so many strands going, and this is all way more than he needs to know about knitting, especially right now, because no one else was really supposed to see, and Beckett is going to _kill_ him.

It might be a while, but that's no comfort. A dozen people crowd around him. They're howling and pointing and slapping him on the back. They pull their faces straight and nod seriously when the Captain launches into another wave of appreciation for how _playful_ and _vibrant_ it is and laugh behind her back.

Beckett prowls the edge of the group. She's looking for an opening. She's had enough, and he knows he won't get a chance to plead his case. He won't even get to argue that it's a joke. A _tiny_ _joke_ and how was he supposed to resist? It's not camouflage, after all. It's 100% camo free, and he's not even going to get a chance to point that out before she kills him dead.

Esposito has his own little crowd now. A sub-crowd knotted around the two of them. Him and Ryan. Esposito strikes the classic pose: Shoulders hunched and one foot in front of the other. Ryan calls out stage directions then gets impatient. He demonstrates: One arm extended in front, the other behind with the palm up. He gestures to the sweater for reference. An argument breaks out.

It gets really bad then. Gates calls over _more_ people to look, and the crush of slightly inebriated cops grows around him. People are shouting about Bigfoot mugshots for charity and wondering if they can get the guy with the suit. Someone shouts _Castle should do it!_ He'spretty sure it's Ryan. He thinks about killing Ryan, but there probably isn't time.

Lots of people are tugging at him now. They're pulling him this way and that and snapping cell phone pictures. He wonders absently if those will show up at the trial. A courtroom with a murder board. Pictures of him looking dazed and a little nauseated while a dozen drunk cops hook an arm around his neck and point to his chest.

He wonders if there'll be a trial at all. Because they're vocalizing now. Everyone. Almost everyone, and there's this chorus of everything from a wombat in pain to first-draft Chewbacca. So she might just blow the whole place.

Esposito and Ryan are laughing so hard they can barely stand. Esposito claps him hard on one vibrant green shoulder and he knows, then. There won't be a trial. They'll never find his body. Ryan and Esposito have a plan. They've had a plan since day one. Since the minute he set foot in the twelfth. It's strangely comforting. He doesn't want her to go down for this. For a tiny, 100% camo-free joke.

He tries to drift away. To break the circle, but Gates keeps drawing him back. She keeps gesturing up and down his torso like a slightly drunk Vanna White, and she _really_ wants people to appreciate the craftsmanship. She's not crazy about the sudden outbreak of cryptozoological vocalizations though. She's shushing people and they've stopped bothering to wait until her back is turned before they laugh. Things are about to get ugly.

They're already ugly. None of this was supposed to happen. He's pretty much at the point of welcoming death. He _wants_ her to kill him. He keeps losing sight of her, though, then there she is again. Still on the fringes of the crowd and _that's_ unnerving as hell. Because she's _not_ looking for an opening. She's letting him suffer.

She's going to kill him, just not right now.

Right now, she's playing with her food.

* * *

He's cute when he's terrified.

That's all this is. This warm, fuzzy feeling that killing him can wait a while. Maybe until after the holidays. After Christmas together. Their family Christmas.

It has to be that. That fact that he's _cute_. And maybe the eggnog, because someone keeps refilling her glass when she's not looking and it's tasty. The sugar cookies probably aren't helping, either. Her favorite sugar cookies and Christmas music that isn't totally obnoxious. And the fact that this is _nice_.The party is nice, and it was really sweet of him to do this.

It just seems rude to kill him right now. But it's mostly that he's cute when he's terrified. That's why she can wait a while.

It isn't the sweater. She is _not_ not killing him becausethat fucking sweater is growing on her. It's revolting. It makes him look radioactive in the fluorescent lights, and there's nothing funny about it, even if he thinks so. Even if the desperate grin he keeps trying to throw her way says _See? It's a joke_. He thinks it's funny, even though he's terrified.

It's not funny. It's not cute. It's not dredging up fond memories of another hideous outfit. Because there are no fond memories of that. No fond memories _at all_ of that or the tiny camo shorts he thought were _hilarious_ until she taught him an important lesson about what's funny and what's not.

It's time. It's definitely time for another lesson, and that's what's important here.

Because he does _not_ look good in that awful shade of green. No one looks good in that awful shade of green. And she is not picturing him with a wide-eyed little one on his knee.

That pulls her up short. She's working the perimeter of the crowd around him. Dodging in and out and not engaging. Not making eye contact, but that stops her cold. Because she _is_ thinking about it.

She has no idea what is _wrong_ with her, but she's picturing it. A tiny, awful matching sweater. Spying on him. On the two of them by the fire while he tells Bigfoot Christmas stories. She feels herself choking up. Feeling sorry for Bigfoot and his lonely Christmas. Undone by how cute they are in their awful, _awful_ sweaters.

She shakes her head and blinks hard. She sets down the eggnog and tries to get it together. To banish the image and the warm, fuzzy inclination to put off killing him.

She takes a breath and clears her mind. Because it is _not_ the sweater. It is not the fucking sweater and she will set it on fire to prove it if she has to. She'd set it on fire right now with him in it if only it wouldn't ruin the party.

If only he weren't so cute when he's terrified. But he is. He's just so fucking _cute,_ and she's going to kill him. Eventually.

He keeps trying to back away. He keeps trying to run, but there's nowhere to go. Gates wants everyone to appreciate it. The craftsmanship. How clever it is. She's getting loud about it and Castle is _terrified._

He's actually looking for her now. Like he thinks she might help. Like the fact that he's so fucking cute when he's terrified might get him out of this.

It might _._

_Damn it._

She kind of wants to save him. A little. But only because he's cute. Not because she's a sad case, and definitely not because every last goddamned thing about him just _does it_ for her. Even that stupid hat. His whole damned Bigfoot-hunting get up. Even that fucking sweater.

It's not that at all. It's just a really nice party.

And he's cute when he's terrified.

And _fine_ there's going to be a nice-party-ruining _incident_ if she doesn't get him and that fucking sweater alone somewhere in the next five minutes.

So she'll save him first. _Then_ she'll kill him. After. She is definitely killing him after.

* * *

It's worse than bad. By the time he realizes she's gone—she's not just ducking around the edges, she's _gone_ —it's so much worse than bad.

They're telling stories now, Ryan and Esposito. About The Case That Shall Not be Named. How he and Beckett fell into the Bigfoot trap. _For, not by,_ he hears himself say, but he's not really listening. He definitely shouldn't be talking under the circumstances. He's in enough trouble already.

She's nowhere to be seen. That should be a good thing. When Ryan pipes up about Beckett's "mysterious illness" right after The Case and a knowing murmur goes through the whole crowd, he should be relieved. He should be grateful as hell that she seems to be out of earshot, but he's not.

He's terrified that she's really furious. Not . . . fun-slightly-dangerous-sex-with-a-few-totally-worth-it-bruises furious, but really upset. Embarrassed, even though no one knows what happened. No one knows about the two of them . . . making out at the bottom of the Bigfoot trap.

And Ryan's fishing. They all are. Nobody knows about the chigger bites or the Benadryl or— _oh god_ —the tiny camo shorts. Nobody _really_ knows why the sweater is a joke. A tiny joke, just between the two of them. Nobody knows, but she might be really upset.

He might have ruined this for her. The party. Christmas here with _this_ family. Their first Christmas together. The first real one with no lies or confessions. With her really being ok that someone else will keep watch.

She might be gone. This is so much worse than bad.

He needs to find her. _Now._ Five minutes ago. He needs to get them both out of here and ditch the stupid sweater. He needs to _fix_ it.

He fakes a phone call from Alexis. It's easier than he thought it would be. It happens quickly. All of a sudden, the whole crowd is too far gone to really notice. They're shouting and laughing and plotting Bigfoot money-making schemes.

The Captain has finally wandered off. She has one hand planted on the side of a speaker and she's leaning hard into it. Her eyes and she's nodding along to a song she seems to like.

He gives her wide berth, though. Like her eyes might snap open at any second and she might start in again about hand feel and color ways and the difficulty of suggesting a curved edge in knit stitches. Like he might already be dead and that's it for the rest of eternity.

He weaves his way through the group, holding his phone to his ear and pointing apologetically when someone tries to pull him aside to judge their pose or their vocalizations or to tell him how kick-ass the eggnog is.

He makes it. Slips free of the last stragglers who want a selfie with the sweater.

He steps around the corner. Out of the light and far enough down a hallway that he can hear himself think. He stops. He leans against the wall to get his bearings. To figure out how bad it is and where she might have gone.

Not far, it turns out. Not far at all.

  



	2. Chapter 2

He's talking. Babbling apologies in the loudest whisper in the world, and she just needs him to be _quiet._ She needs to think. But he keeps being cute.

She's having trouble keeping her hands off him. A lot of trouble. He's contrite and concerned and sweet. He keeps saying her name in that voice that makes her want to crawl all over him.

That's the plan anyway. Crawling all over him, but not here. Not in some godforsaken hallway. She knows a place. A really good place.

It's some kind of secondary linen closet for the locker room or something. Sheets and towels in big fluffy piles. It's a really good place that hardly anyone knows about with lots of space and no sharp corners.

She's had it in the back of her mind, but they haven't been doing this lately. Closets and secret hideouts at work. Because everyone _knows_ knows since she's been back and she feels like they have to be more careful. He does, too, and that's weird. Like they have to be more responsible.

She doesn't want to be responsible tonight. She she wants to be nice—right _now—_ and it's a really _good_ secret hideout. She just can't remember where it is. Not with him talking.

She's only seen it once or twice, and the precinct is kind of confusing in the dark. In the eggnog dark, anyway. The eggnog is definitely not helping. But it's mostly him. It's mostly that he's cute and he keeps _talking._

"Castle!" She whips around as she hisses at him. He has her doing it, too, now. The world's loudest whisper and she doesn't even know if she should care.

She's lost track of where the bullpen is. She feels the thump of probably distant bass and the low roar of a party in full swing somewhere, but she doesn't even know if the loud whispering is something to worry about.

"Castle!" She's going for a hiss again, but it comes out wrong. The floor tilts and he's hissing her name back at her. He's hissing and doing it right.

He catches her. It's a surprise. To find him so close. To find that she needs catching. She definitely does, though. He just snags her hips and pulls her to him at the last second. Even then he stumbles, and that's a surprise, too, because he's right there.

All of him is _right there_ and he smells good and that fucking sweater looks even worse in the orange flare of the stairwell exit sign. It's _hideous_ , but it feels good in her hands and how is that even _possible?_ He's right there and wherever the hell that linen closet has gotten to, they'll never make it. There's no way.

She lunges at him. Throws them both off balance. She's kissing him and they're stumbling together into the wall.

There's talking. She hears talking. It annoys the hell out of her until she realizes it's her. The same words over and over again. The same loud whisper.

"You're lucky, Castle. You're lucky you're so fucking cute."

* * *

He's not drunk.

He shouldn't be, anyway. He had a tiny punch cup of mulled wine at some point but he doesn't even remember tasting it. But it can't just be her. There's too much stumbling going on. Too much missing time in between hard, up-against-the-wall make- out sessions. It can't just be that _she's_ drunk.

She is, though. Drunk. She's grabby and chatty and profanely, determinedly affectionate and it's catching. Intoxicating. This strange, tipsy grace of hers. The way she tugs the two of them from door to door. The way she tries every knob and handle and laughs when he snatches at her wrists. When he scolds about silent alarms and she just trips a few steps ahead, fingertips curling to lock his and hers together.

The way she stops short and he crashes into her. The way she curves her body right into his and tells him that everything's _nice._ That she's still going to kill him and the sweater is _hideous_ and not even a little funny, but she's not going to kill him until after because everything is nice. The party and the eggnog and everything.

Even the sweater. But not the sweater. She goes back and forth on that. She has him against the wall. She's scolding Bigfoot for being sad and lonely. She's tracing the jaunty little Santa cap perched on his furry head one minute, then shoving the hem of the sweater up and up.

She's tugging his shirttails free, telling him how much she _hates_ it. How she's going to kill him. After, though. _After_ , she says, and her fingers are tripping down his bare ribs now and he's not sure when that happened. He's not sure _how_. She turns them. Yanks at his hips and rolls her own shoulders flat against the wall. She kisses him, hard and soft and laughing like the best first date ever.

He's not drunk, but he might as well be, and they're in a _hallway_ in the precinct and there's no door and they really, _really_ shouldn't be doing this. Not here.

"Kate!" He croaks out the syllable. A desperate approximation of her name that makes her laugh again. It ripples over his skin. Warm breath and want. "Kate, we should go."

"Where?" She murmurs in his ear. Lingers to lick and nip and purr and he really might as well be drunk. "Where should we go, Castle?"

"Home." He drops his forehead to her shoulder and pants into the crook of her neck. "I want you home."

It sounds like a good idea. It sounds like a _great_ idea, but she laughs. She laughs and sweeps her tongue into his mouth. She laughs and scrapes her teeth all along his jaw. She laughs and drags one hand hard down between their bodies. One hand over and over and _over_ the front of his jeans.

"Home?" She laughs. "We'll _never_ make it home, Castle."

* * *

They won't make it. He won't make it home, and she doesn't want to.

She wants him here. Now. In the sweater. In the really good hideout. She wants to show him she can be nice, too. She wants to _show_ him.

It gives her focus. A hard line of memory. Determination searing through everything else and she knows where they are. She knows where they need to be, and she's in motion.

He's quiet now. Focused, too, and he knows when to follow. The air changes. Every molecule. Warmth giving way to heat and everything crackling around them. She wonders if they'll ever get there. She wonders if they'll even make it that far.

It's too many turns and they have to stop now and then. She has to have a taste of him and he wants the same. He tugs and unbuttons and sucks at her skin. She pushes him off her, or the other way around. He chases her and she chases him. They stumble on and they're finally there.

He doesn't ask. She doesn't tell. He seems to know, though: This is the place.

He knows. He's pressing at her. Shoving her hips with his own and closing the distance to the door. He's clawing at her. Dragging his fingers down her spine and palming her ass, pinning her hard against the doorframe now, and she shoves him away laughing.

She reaches for the knob. Twists and pulls him back to her and . . . nothing. _Nothing._ It's locked. It's fucking _locked._

She pulls back. Breaks a long, hard kiss with a pop and stares. She He stares back. Half a second at most before he puts his shoulder to the door and twists the knob hard. It wrenches open, the lock giving with a pop of its own.

The air changes again. All blue sparks on a rolling red background, and she has to have him.

She has to have him _now._

* * *

"It's dark." She breaks away from him as the door snicks shut. "It's _dark_ in here."

She wanders. She sounds so forlorn—so disappointed—that he's glad she can't go far. It's a closet or something. Not very big, wherever they are.

"It's ok," he says quickly. He gropes in the dark. Reaches for her and catches a shirttail. "I've got . . . " He wraps one arm around her waist. Holds her close and fumbles in his pocket with his free hand. "I've got _this!"_

He fumbles with the phone. Thumbs his clumsy way from screen to screen and comes up with it. The black flares to life. Orange and amber and gold. A yule log app, surprisingly bright in the tiny space.

She stares at first. She stares and then her face catches the light. She's glaring at him hard, but the simulated flames flicker over the tight angle of her jaw and he knows that face. He knows it just before she launches herself at him. Just before she knocks him back and into something soft. A shelf piled high with something soft. He props the phone on it, face out with the light rippling over the two of them.

"You're lucky you're cute," she snarls.

He is. He absolutely _is_ the luckiest fool to walk the face of the earth. He knows it, but she's dropping to her knees anyway. She's undoing his pants in record time like he needs proof to convince him. Like he doesn't know every second how lucky he is.

He goes away for a minute when her mouth closes around him. He goes to where there's nothing but heat and airless silence and the wet, dirty pull of her. There's only her fingernails sharp at his hips and the counterpoint of thumbs circling and circling, so light at the crease of his thigh that it almost tickles.

The contrast drives him high. _Higher._ He goes away and comes back. Jolts hard back into his body and can't believe the tale his white knuckles tell where they're fisted in her hair. Can't believe he's pushing and pushing into her mouth and she's moving with him. He can't believe it when he stops. When he jerks his hips back. _Away._ When he presses his own thumbs under her jaw and urges her back. _Up._ He can't believe it and neither can she.

"I was being nice," she smiles. A razor slice of white at the edge of where the light reaches.

She reaches for him. Reaches down and wraps a sinful curl of fingers around the slick length of him.  She pumps her fist twice, and the whole room goes red. The flames dance on the inside of his eyelids and he thinks to himself that he knew it would happen eventually. He knew she was going to kill him.

He turns back right on the edge. Somehow. He pulls her in. Kisses her slow and peels her hand away. _Somehow_.

"This is nice," he murmurs, low enough that she stops breathing to hear.

"Isn't it, Kate?" He jerks hard at her shirt and something tears. He hardly notices though. Hardly cares. It's another thing out of his way and he's tonguing her nipple through the lace of her bra. "Nice," he whispers.

"Castle . . . " She wants it to be a warning. A threat. Cruel fingers tugging at his hair tell him that, but she's halfway undone already.

He skims his fingers over her stomach. Makes her jump and climbs back up to make her jump again. Her mouth opens and closes. No sound this time, but his name riding on the silence. _Castle._

"Nice, Kate?" One hand skips up to tweak at her other breast. To pinch and twist just hard enough that her hips jerk against him at just the right time. His hand is already slipping down. Past the button of her dress pants and down again to sweep aside the narrow margin of her panties. To connect at just the right moment. To find her slick and burning. "Nice," he breathes. "Very nice, Beckett."

He plays with her a while. Even though he knows he'll pay for it. He teases her clit with circles and light back and forth. Dips just the tip of one finger, then two into her. Lets her work herself up, twisting her hips and trying to pull him closer. Trying to get at more of him.

He fumbles her bra open, slow and clumsy with just the one hand. He slides her free of black lace and the wreck of her shirt. He pulls the hand between her legs back, deliberate and heavy and sliding. Silences her with a hungry kiss when she tries to protest and sets to work on button and zipper and getting her naked.

He peels her pants down her legs. Dips and bows to help her step out of them. She's cursing him. Clutching at his shoulders detailing all the ways she's going to kill him after. _After_.

She's curses him, he murmurs absent-minded agreement, and then she's silent. Dead silent as he as he pushes her thighs apart and drags his tongue over her. As he lets his teeth scrape her clit gently before he dives in again, lapping and teasing and all light kisses until she's begging.

She's tension head to toe. Broken threats that he coaxes her along until she falls. Until her back bends, and her knees give out and he's catching her again. He's hooking his palms behind her thighs. Sitting her back on the shelf and pushing into her. Pressing deeper and deeper.

He kisses her. Shares the taste of her while her body closes around him, still in the throes of an orgasm. He drives into her. Pulls back with a jerk and his vision goes dark and bright and crazy again as she squeezes hard, ankles, thighs, and all of her. _All of her._

She pulls him in. Wraps her arms around him and pulls his hips flush into her. Urges him into short, tight strokes as she chants sweet, dirty things in his ear. She pulls him in until he's coming on a hot, endless cry. Until she's coming, too, and he's ready to die.

He's absolutely ready to die now.

* * *

She kind of hates him.

He's grinning in the ridiculous fake flames. Pleased with himself, and the way she keeps having to sit down and everything. She really kind of hates him.

He knows, but she tells him anyway. "I really kind of hate you."

"I know." He kisses her. Groans a little at the taste of her on his lips and hers. "You said. A lot. But you also said I was nice. A _lot_ lot."

"Shut up." She grabs at him. Pulls him toward her by the sweater. Because he's still wearing it and he's _cute_ and she hates him all over again for that. She hates him because it's growing on her. "Shut up, Castle."

"Ok," he mumbles agreeably into her mouth.

They're getting dressed. They're supposed to be, but things have kind of stalled with her pants on and not much progress beyond that. He's kissing her. Lazy and deceptive and his hands are working hard. They're tripping and dragging up her sides. Visiting all her favorite spots just how she likes it. It's suspicious. _Suspicious._

"What'd you do, Castle?" She nips at his lip.

"What?" He sucks at the top of her breast. Licks along her collar bone. "Me? Nothing."

She closes her fingers around one ear and tugs. She pulls him up to face her. He's indignant and guilty and turned on and she thinks maybe they should just seal up the door and stay here. It's a good hideout and he's really cute.

She reels him in. Wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She pulls him toward her, back into the fluffy piles behind her on the shelf.

"What'd you do?" she whispers and slides a hand down between them. It's a threat and he knows it. He whimpers. Draws it out a little longer then buries his face against her shoulder.

"I may have kind of totally ruined your shirt." He pulls it out from behind her back. It's a wreck. Most of the buttons still through their holes and a ragged edge running down most of the placket where it tore away.

She stares. Grabs it from him and lets him sweat for a few seconds. Lets him sweat a little more, because _good._ Because he's entirely too pleased with himself and that's about enough of that. Because she still has to kill him.

"I'll need my jacket." She pushes him away. Turns away from the flames because the look on his face is priceless— _priceless_ —and she's trying hard not to grin.

"Your jacket?" he gulps.

"It's on the back of my chair." She turns him by the shoulders and herds him toward the door.

"In the _bullpen_?"

"In the bullpen. That's where my chair is, Castle." She keeps her words short. Clipped. She bites her lip and tries to keep it together.

He's panicked. Twisting and trying to face her. He does. He wrenches free and grabs her by the shoulders. "That's where _Gates_ is, Beckett. That's where they _all_ are. I'll never get out alive."

"Did you think you would, Castle?" She drags a heavy finger down the center of his chest. Collar to belt and tugs him toward her. "When you bought this—when you put this on tonight—did you really think you'd get out of this alive?"

"M- maybe?"

She laughs. Kisses him savagely as she tugs his shirt down and the sweater up. "Give it," she murmurs. She drags her hands up his chest. "Now, Castle."

"This?" He's confused, but he knows an order when he hears one. He ducks through the collar and yanks his arms out of the sleeves.

She raises her arms. Arches back against the shelf, naked to the waist, and he gets it then. He turns his head away with a groan and drops the sweater over one wrist, then the other. He stretches the neck wide and gently eases it over her head.

She looks down at herself. Shakes back the sleeves and gathers the gaping hem in her hand. It's awful. It's _so_ awful, but he's taking her in. He's looking her up and down in the fake flicker of flames. Then he's grabbing for her.

"We have to go." He wrenches open the door.

"Castle." She tries to protest. She worries fleetingly about the lock. About the toppled piles of sheets and towels and what that's going to look like come tomorrow. "Go _where_?"

"Home," he says shortly. "Home _now_. We need a real fire. We have to burn it."

She spins away from him. Dances into the glow of the exit sign and runs a languid hand down her chest, lingering to circle the jaunty red Santa hat. "This? You want to burn this?"

"Yes. As soon as possible." He strides toward her. Reaches out, but she's gone already.

She's down the hall and he's chasing. "You're not burning my sweater, Castle."

"Yours?" He catches her. Fumbles under the hem for bare skin and she wonders if they'll ever get out of here. If they'll ever make it home.

"Mine," she says. "I make it work."

* * *

A/N: Yes, the sweater is real. No, I did not make it. It's well beyond my meager abilities, but you can see it at my tumblr. pollylynn dot tumblr dot com.


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